Letter 5.14

If you are well, I am glad, and I am well, though a little worse than usual. I have sought you out frequently in order to see you; since you have not been in Rome after you left me, I was surprised -- and I am equally surprised now. I am not sure what chiefly keeps you away from here. If you take pleasure in solitude while you write and work at some of those things you are accustomed to, I rejoice and do not criticize your decision; for nothing can be more pleasant than that, not only in these wretched and mournful times, but even in tranquil and desired ones, especially for either your wearied spirit, which now seeks rest from great occupations, or your learning, which always produces something from itself to delight others and adorn you with praise. But if, as when you left here, you have given yourself over to tears and sadness, I grieve because you grieve and I am distressed, and I cannot refrain from -- if you allow us to speak more freely what we feel -- reproaching you. For what? Will you alone not see what is plain, you who because of your keen mind perceive the most hidden things? Will you not understand that troubles are doubled which your wisdom demands you lighten? But if I cannot accomplish something by persuasion, I contend by appeal and by asking, if you will do anything for my sake, that you free yourself from those troubles and return to our companionship and to your customary life, whether shared with us or your own alone. I do not wish to annoy you, if you do not take pleasure in my solicitude; I wish to deter you from persisting in your purpose. Now these two contrary aims trouble me; in one of them I would have you yield to me, if you can, and in the other I would not have you take offense. Farewell.

DLXXXIV (Fam. V, 14) L. LUCCEIUS TO CICERO (AT ASTURA) ROME (9 MAY) If you are well, I am glad: I am as usual, or even a little worse than usual. I have often wished to see you. I was surprised to find that you have not been at Rome since your departure: and I am still surprised at it. I don't feel certain as to the exact motive which withdraws you from Rome . If it is solitude that charms you, provided that you write or carry on some of your accustomed pursuits, I rejoice, and have no fault to find with your resolution. For nothing can be pleasanter than that, I don't mean merely in such unhappy and grievous times as these, but even when everything is peaceful and answerable to our wishes. Especially if your mind is either so far wearied as to need repose after heavy engagements, or so richly endowed as ever to be producing something capable of charming others and adding brilliancy to your own reputation. If, however, as you indicate, you have surrendered yourself to tears and melancholy thoughts, I grieve that you are grieving and suffering: I cannot — if you permit me to say what I really think-altogether acquit you of blame. For reflect: will you be the only man not to see what is as clear as day, you whose acuteness detects the most profound secrets? Will you fail to understand that you do no good by daily lamentations? Will you fail to understand that the sorrow is doubled, which your wisdom expects you to remove? Well, if I cannot prevail upon you by persuasion, I put it to you as a personal favour and as a special request, that, if you care to do anything for my sake, you would free yourself from the bonds of that sorrow and return to our society and to your ordinary way of life, whether that which we share in common with you, or that which is characteristic of and peculiar to yourself. My desire is not to worry you, if I cannot give you pleasure, by a display of earnestness on my part: what I desire is to prevent you from abiding by your present purpose. At present these two opposite desires do somewhat puzzle me — I should wish you either in regard to the latter of them to yield to my advice, or in regard to the former not to feel any annoyance with me. Good-bye.

XIV. Scr. Romae mense Iunio a.u.c. 709. L. LUCCEIUS Q. F. S. D. M. TULLIO M. F. S. V. B. E. V., sicut soleo, paullulo tamen etiam deterius, quam soleo. Te requisivi saepius, ut viderem: Romae quia postea non fuisti, quam a me discesseras, miratus sum; quod idem nunc miror. Non habeo certum, quae te res hinc maxime retrahat: si solitudine delectare, cum scribas et aliquid agas eorum, quorum consuesti, gaudeo neque reprehendo tuum consilium; nam nihil isto potest esse iucundius non modo miseris his temporibus et luctuosis, sed etiam tranquillis et optatis, praesertim vel animo defetigato tuo, qui nunc requirem quaerat ex magnis occupationibus, vel eruditio, qui semper aliquid ex se promat, quod alios delectet, te ipsum laudibus illustret; sin autem, sicut hinc discesseras, lacrimis ac tristitiae te tradidisti, doleo, quia doles et angere, nec possum te non—si concedis, quod sentimus, ut liberius dicamus—accusare: quid enim? tu solus aperta non videbis, qui propter acumen occultissima perspicis? tu non intelliges duplicari sollicitudines, quas elevare tua te prudentia postulat? Quod si non possumus aliquid proficere suadendo, gratia contendimus et rogando, si quid nostra causa vis, ut istis te molestiis laxes et ad convictum nostrum redeas atque ad consuetudinem vel nostram communem vel tuam solius ac propriam. Cupio non obtundere te, si non delectare nostro studio: cupio deterrere, ne permaneas in incepto. Nunc duae res istae contrariae me conturbant, ex quibus aut in altera mihi velim, si potes, obtemperes aut in altera non offendas. Vale.